Page 9 of Madness

There's a moment of silence between us that almost feels comfortable, and I find myself wanting to know more. "Is it just you and Roman?" I ask, then immediately regret it when I see her expression close off again.

"Yes," she says simply, and I know I've hit a sensitive topic. Fuck.

"I'm sorry," I backpedal quickly. "I didn't mean to pry."

Lauren shakes her head, her guard sliding back into place. "It's fine. I should get back to work."

As she stands, I feel a panic rising in my chest. I don't want this conversation to end, not like this. "Lauren," I say, and she pauses. "I'm glad Roman is feeling better."

She looks at me for a long moment, tilting her head to the side a little, and I see something shift in her eyes. "Thank you, Dakota," she says softly. "I'll be back with your food soon."

Watching her walk away, I realize I'm in deeper than I thought. And I'm not sure if that terrifies me or thrills me more. The only thing I’m sure of is that I have no clue what the fuck I’m doing.

7

BEACH SEDUCTION

LAUREN

Iflip the sign on the door to 'Closed' as the last of the regular customers file out. The diner's usual chatter and clatter fade to a hush, replaced by the soft hum of the refrigerators and the distant buzz of the neon sign outside. The overhead lights seem brighter now even though they’re not, casting long shadows across the mostly empty booths and highlighting the smudges on the freshly wiped tables. The air, still heavy with the lingering scents of coffee and grilled food, takes on a different quality—expectant, almost, as if the space itself is exhaling after a long day.

My feet ache, and all I want is to get home to Roman, but my gaze is drawn to the lone figure still occupying a booth in the corner. Dakota has been here for hours, nursing coffee and picking at a slice of pie. His presence in the newly quieted diner seems more pronounced, a focal point in the empty space. The subdued lighting accentuates the sharp angles of his face, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead and shoulders. His fingers, adorned with silver rings, tap an irregular rhythm on the table. Even in his seemingly relaxed posture, a coiled energy about him is like a tightly wound spring. When they flick up to meet mine, his eyes are deep and intense, carrying a weight that seems at odds with his rockstar persona. In this moment, stripped of the stage lights and screaming fans, he looks more human and more intriguing than ever.

I should be annoyed at a customer overstaying their welcome, but instead, I feel a flutter of something else. Curiosity? Anticipation? The twilight hour in the diner suddenly feels charged with possibility.

I can't help but reflect on the evening. Throughout my shift, I'd found myself hyper-aware of his presence. Our eyes had met across the diner more times than I cared to admit, each glance accompanied by a small, almost shy smile from him. Whenever I'd passed by his table, he'd looked up from his coffee, offering a nod or a quiet "How's it going?" It’s been ages since anyone has shown that kind of gentle attention, and I’m surprised by how much I enjoyed it.

At one point, during a particularly hectic rush, he'd caught my eye and mimed taking a deep breath. I'd found myself following his lead, feeling some of the tension ease from my shoulders. These little moments, spread throughout the evening, created a strange sense of connection. It was as if we'd been sharing a secret, a quiet understanding of some kind in the middle of the diner's chaos. And despite my best efforts to stay professional and detached, I can't deny that I looked forward to each of those brief interactions.

I try to extricate the strange feelings bubbling up inside me. I don't have time for this. I don't have room in my life for complications.

But as I approach his table, I hear myself saying, "Mind if I join you for a minute?"

He looks up, surprise and something like relief flickering across his face. "Please," he says, gesturing to the seat across from him.

I slide into the booth, suddenly unsure of what to say. Our earlier conversation has been playing on repeat in my mind all evening. The way he asked about Roman, the flash of pain in his eyes when I mentioned my son's age. There's a story there, I'm sure of it.

"So," I start, surprising myself with my boldness, "any particular reason you're still here? We closed ten minutes ago."

Dakota's hand twitches slightly as he reaches for his coffee mug. "Just enjoying the ambiance," he says with a forced laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "Nah, I guess I just lost track of time. Been working on some lyrics."

I glance at the empty table in front of him, devoid of any writing materials. No pen. No notebook. "Must be all in your head then," I say, not buying his excuse for a second.

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. "Yeah, sometimes that's how it works." His fingers go back to drumming a restless rhythm on the tabletop, and I notice a slight tremor in his hands that seems to linger.

"Anything you want to share?" I ask, genuinely curious. "I promise I won't steal your next hit song."

That draws a legitimate chuckle from him. "Trust me, you wouldn't want to. It's all pretty raw right now." He pauses, seeming to debate with himself. "It's about... loss. And trying to move forward."

I nod, understanding all too well. "That's a big topic."

"Yeah," he says softly. "It is."

There's a moment of silence between us. I watch Dakota fidget with his empty mug, his movements jittery and unfocused.

"So," he says, clearly trying to change the subject, "how was your shift? Besides having to deal with annoying lingering customers, I mean."

I smile, appreciating his attempt at humor. "Oh, you know. The usual mix of poor tips and ridiculous demands. Nothing I can't handle."

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